


So come take a drink (And drown your sorrows)

by Neuron



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Underage Drinking, billy confuses steve, these boys are both a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 07:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18464353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neuron/pseuds/Neuron
Summary: And all of your fears will be gone 'til tomorrowBilly, who came out here to escape his monsters. Steve, who came to find his. And instead they’d found each other. Fate or a bad fucking joke—he didn’t know. But it was already happening so Steve let it happen.





	So come take a drink (And drown your sorrows)

It was a cool and clear night; the damp spring air rustled through the trees behind him and both moon and starlight illuminated the clearing ahead.

That's how Steve knew it was him even from this distance. A halo of light reflected off blonde curls like a crown resting on his inflated head, fitting for the new king of Hawkin’s high school. He could make out the slope of denim-clad shoulders—a sharp contrast to the inky body of water beyond him—and  a bottle silently swishing through the air; its contents being swallowed down greedily.

Honestly Steve didn't know why he even walked this way. This was the same spot where they had pulled Will Byers’ corpse from. Or the fake Will Byers. A doll stuffed and modelled to look like a 12 year old boy—just one small part of a far greater scandal. It might not have been the real Will, but it was still grim, and Steve had more than enough dark thoughts to keep him awake at night.

His intention had been to escape his thoughts—the persistent, nocturnal ones that refused to still—to seek out something real and tangible. Something he could touch. Something he could _kill._

He’d craved it so much he couldn't tell if the fuzzy shapes hovering on the edge of his vision were really there—whipping from sight whenever he tried to find them in the looming shadows of his too big house—but _lurking, lurking, lurking,_ somewhere close by. Watching. Waiting.

Sleep never came on nights like this. He’d crept around his house, flicking on lights with baited breath and waiting for the shadows to lunge with a screech and rows upon rows of sharp teeth. He had checked every room in the house, twice, and spent an hour staring out over the pool in the backyard, listening intently for any rustle or creak.

Only silence was there to greet him. But it had been quiet that night in the junkyard. Before the dogs came out of the darkness. They could have been just beyond his vision, prowling and circling, closing in on him. Lit up by the pool lights he was practically a homing beacon, alone in a house isolated by its land, he felt like he was on _their_ turf. A sliver of fear had slipped up his spine like the cool side of a blade—felt like there were eyes on him—and his fingers had twisted instinctively around his bat.

His body wouldn’t be found for _days_ if he fell there.

Dustin had called him irrational when he confided about his occasional midnight hunts—which was crazy coming from a kid who took in a monster from another dimension as a _pet_ —and Hopper reassured him they were out of danger _(“the gate’s shut—we’re safe”)_ but Steve had once naively believed the danger had already passed the night Will was found. He’d been the most eager to move on, sign on the dotted line and put all memory of monsters and shady government labs behind him. He came out alive and he got the girl. It was a happy ending.

Until it wasn’t.

He refused to be caught so unprepared again. That didn’t make him _irrational_.

It had been hours since he’d left his house—following his trusted instincts as he had in the tunnels—kept to the woodland and away from the neighbourhoods even when he knew it was too late for anyone to be strolling around. His feet had eventually led him here, to the base of the quarry, and to Billy Hargrove. Not the monster he was looking for.

Maybe Max’s monster but not Steve’s.

Billy Hargrove was a pain for sure. A thorn in his side. A pot hole in the road on a dark night or a guide-rope on a tent. Always there to knock everyone down a peg or two because he got off on being top dog. But Steve’s seen bigger and meaner things than Billy. When you’ve swung a bat at creatures hell-bent on bringing about the destruction of your dimension—head-cases like Billy just weren’t as threatening anymore.

Maybe that's why he didn't turn away, retreat back into the trees and continue his hunt. Curiosity, he reasoned.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_ , a voice sing-songed in the back of his mind, and Steve was _very_ aware that approaching Billy Hargrove alone in the middle of the night spelt all kinds of trouble. But he’d come out prepared for a fight, and Steve was willing to bet that that bottle he’d seen contained some kind of strong alcohol, and Billy got sloppy when he was drunk.

He also had the bat. The weapon had felled Billy Hargrove once—or so he’d heard, he was busy being unconscious at the particular moment—and could possibly serve as a severe reminder of Max’s threat.

He kept his eyes trained on Billy as he approached slowly. He had his head bowed, concentrating on his something in his hands, and appeared unaware of Steve’s arrival until the gravel below his sneakers crunched loudly enough to make him jerk in surprise. Steve heard his neck crack when he whipped his head around and came to a halt when he saw Billy’s face, bruised and tinged with a hint of panic. Like a child just caught doing something he shouldn’t, and Steve felt a tingle of satisfaction at catching Billy in a moment of vulnerability. He noticed how his eyes flickered from his face to the bat at his side—narrowing in recognition—before returning to his face again; devoid of any alarm that had been there moments ago. An amused smirk quickly spread over his face.

“King _Steve.”_ He purred, all teeth and clearly half-drunk already. His lip was split and sore looking. “It's an _honor.”_

Steve felt himself relax a little. “Don't cream your pants, Hargrove.”

Surprisingly Billy only cackled at that, dropping his head back down to face his lap where Steve could make out a half rolled joint in Billy’s hands. He was clearly having some difficulty, twitchy fingers pressing too hard and the paper creased, rolling too loose and Billy mumbled out a curse, unravelling it to try again. Beside him, the label on the bottle read _whiskey_ —some cheap looking shit if Steve had to guess—and from here Steve was able to tell it was half empty.

“Shouldn't you get high, y’know, _before_ you drink?” He surprised himself with his words. He’d never willingly opened a conversation with Billy before, couldn’t stand to be in his presence for too long.

Billy seemed unperturbed by Steve’s comment, he merely shrugged and said, “yeah sure. If you're a pussy,” like the hardcore Californian rocker he seemed to think he was. Steve rolled his eyes.

“That whiskey looks shit.”

“Want to try some?” Billy said nodding at the bottle without taking his eyes off the joint he was still struggling with.

Steve gave the bottle a scrutinizing look as if Billy had poisoned it. He couldn’t think of any other reason why Billy would offer. But he’d seen Billy take a swig just before and he didn’t look like he was dying. He stepped closer to the Camaro, closer to where Billy was perched cross-legged on the hood, and grasped the bottle by the neck; withdrawing quickly in case Billy decided to use the proximity to lash out. Billy didn’t even spare him a glance. He continued to try and even out his pot, not commenting on Steve’s hesitation, and Steve wondered whether Billy would even notice if he just disappeared back into the woods like he was never there. It would be the wiser decision for both of them. Billy can drink his whiskey and smoke his pot and blow chunks afterwards in peace, and Steve can go back to hunting monsters that don’t exist with a sober mind.

But nobody had ever called Steve wise, and a little whiskey wouldn’t impair him too much. So he raised the bottle to his mouth, tried not to think about Billy’s lips having already slobbered over it, and knocked back a mouthful. It burned his throat.

“Yep,” he said, his lips curling into a grimace. “That’s cheap shit.”

“Never denied it,” Billy said casting Steve a fleeting grin, “but it’s a good night for a drink and that’s all I could get my hands on.”

“Good night for a fight too?” Steve found himself asking, eyeing up the discolouration he could make out around Billy’s temple.

“It’s _always_ a good night for a fight, pretty boy.” He drawled, all light and teasing on the surface but with a spark of something dangerous glinting in his eyes behind the haze of alcohol. A warning. Even as drunk as Billy was Steve bet he could still throw a mean punch.

But Billy didn’t throw any punches. He leered at Steve a while longer as he pinched the joint and licked along the edge of the paper. Steve tried to pretend the eye contact didn’t make him uncomfortable. Billy flicked his tongue at him and sealed the joint before he snatched the bottle back and took a swig.

Steve shook his head at the obvious posing. Billy was a crude fuck. Full of swagger and self-admiration but it was becoming all the more apparent that Billy’s bravado wasn’t as compelling with a busted face and clean knuckles. Billy had already fought tonight and he’d clearly _lost_. Steve could rub that in his face if he wanted to, but bruised egos are dangerous playthings and he knew Billy was the type to knock somebody else down in order to lift himself back up.

Steve was pretty sure he also knew who fucked up Billy’s face and that territory was off-limits.

 _“_ So. You're just getting drunk?”

“Mhmm.”

“Out in the middle of the woods? At—” he squinted at his wristwatch, just about able to make out the figures “—2am on a school night?” It sounded like the worst idea ever in Steve’s book.

“You're as sharp as always, Harrington.” Billy slurred, slopping a little whiskey down his front. “Your obser—obser _vation_ skills are—” he held up one hand above his head as if measuring some unseen object “—they're off the _chart,_ man,”

“Thanks.” Steve deadpanned as Billy propped the joint between his lips, patting down the pockets on his denim jacket in search of his lighter. Steve had one in his pocket but didn't offer it.

Eventually Billy dug his own out and flicked the wheel once, twice, before the flame lit up, casting an orange glow over Billy’s face, just bright enough for Steve to examine the bruising around his left eye. It looked fairly new—tender and reddened from dilated blood vessels—not yet at its worst, but given a day or so would turn into a blotchy pallet of purple and blues. There was a small cut at the tip of his eyebrow, swollen and crusted with dried blood; smudged across his temple to his hairline.

It must’ve been quite a hit. Steve figured Neil Hargrove must wear a ring on his right hand.

The flame disappeared and Billy was sucking on the end. He held the smoke in his chest for several seconds, eyes slipping shut like he’d been waiting for this all night—maybe he had, given how long it’d taken him to roll the damn thing—before he tipped his head back and exhaled.

Moonlight caught his face, illuminating his tan skin and long, dark lashes; pretty like a girl. There was a calm silence where Steve watched Billy smoke; tension exiting his body with the smoke passing his lips. He’d never known Billy to be this quiet. Always so loud, so abrasive, making his presence known everywhere he went—welcomed or not. But Steve had also never seen Billy so soon after one of these _fights._

Steve reached out silently and took the whiskey again, the last quarter sloshing around at the bottom, and downed a large mouthful.

Everybody knows. About Billy’s dad. Or at least they _think_ they know. It’s what they’ve assumed after 7 months and one too many fights where no one seemed to know the other party. Always _some guy from outta town_ or _you'll know him when you see ‘im_ , but, thing is, nobody ever did _see_ him.

Billy didn’t boast much after those _fights_ . Not like had boasted after beating in _King_ Steve’s face. Or Ian Marsdens’ off the football team. Or that one other guy in his English class whose name Steve never remembered. No. Billy would become closed-off and agitated, rude to teacher and peer alike, lining up a weeks’ worth of detentions and nearly getting kicked off the basketball team for playing too aggressively. People inevitably started to gossip. A few rumours had circled the student body, coming round each time with added tales ( _“Well I heard—” “Stacey said she saw—”)_ but no one seemed to know for sure and no one was brave—or dumb—enough to ask Billy directly.

Steve knew a little more than most; courtesy of his new taxying service for a handful of nerdy middle schoolers. He’d heard the words “ _Max says her stepdad is a major dick”_ come straight out of Dustin’s mouth. And though he didn’t speak that much with Max, he’d kept his eye on her from a distance; unwittingly pulling her under his protective sphere. He saw her most days clambering in and out of Billy’s car, knew from the frowns, the yelling, or Max’s middle finger aimed at Billy’s back that she still regraded Billy with nothing short of animosity.

But sometimes—round about the times when Billy’s nursing some new mysterious injury—she would pause, still frowning, but lacking the usual hostility. She would stare at him too long when his tongue poked at a split lip and Steve saw questions rise and fall on her face. He saw her hesitate when Billy struggled to get out the car—arm curled around his midsection—like she wanted to help. It looked a lot like sympathy. Or just barefaced pity. Honestly Steve never was that good at reading people, that’s kinda how he spent a year thinking Nancy was in love with him.

Now that’s a train of thought he didn’t want to go down. He took another mouthful.

“Stealing all m’ whiskey, Harrington?” Billy said, eyes open again, and Steve looked down at the bottle and realized he’s almost finished it; maybe a small shots worth still swirling around the bottom. “Swap ya.” And then Billy held out his hands; one gesturing for the whiskey and the other offering up the joint.

Steve hesitated again, his eyes darting away, seeking out trees he was supposed to be searching. A little whiskey was fine, might even give him some well-needed courage, but he got slow when he was high; all loose limbed with fuzzy cotton nesting in his brain. Not ideal if tonight was indeed the night his monsters broke free from his subconscious and took on physical form.

He could feel Billy’s gaze boring into the side of his head; penetrating and counting every second of his hesitation. His arms dropped back to his sides and he’s slipping down the hood, leather boots hitting the gravel and Steve flinched when the bottle was harshly wrenched from his grasp.

“Don’t be sucha stick in in the mud, Harrington,” Billy grumbled thrusting the joint into his face and Steve snatched it from the air before it could singe his hair. Billy leaned back against the Camaro; giving Steve his space but kept him locked under a scrutinizing gaze. Steve _could_ have easily refused but then what else was there to do but walk away entirely, step back into the woods and pretend this meeting never happened. It’s not like Billy would just tolerate him standing there growing steadily back towards sobriety. This small peace they’d created wasn’t born from clear-headedness and probably wouldn’t survive past the effects of alcohol. It was a little unsettling for Steve to acknowledge that he wasn’t ready to let it die so quickly.

He wanted to savor this quiet moment. Just for a little longer anyway.

Committing to it, Steve eyed the joint critically. It was packed too much in the center and too loose around the roach. “You’re terrible at rolling,” he commented as a matter-of-factly, but Billy just snorted at him, holding his hands up defensively, whiskey grasped loosely in one.

“Admittedly not my best, but I am, like, a _liiiittle_ wasted.”

Steve scoffed. “Excuses, excuses,” but he took the roach between his lips anyway and inhaled deeply, smoke curling over his tongue and filling his lungs. The tension that had crept in slipped back into the darkness; out of sight but lying in wait for the next opportunity. He reckoned they could hold it back for a while longer.

Despite how badly it was rolled, the joint smoked alright. He retrieved his own lighter and burnt away a little excess paper around the end before he continued to smoke. Billy was knocking back the last of the whiskey, baring his teeth in a grimace before tossing the bottle away; the sound of glass shattering breaking the silence momentarily.

Steve managed not to cringe at the noise. It reverberated around the quarry, bouncing back on his ears before dying out and his eyes instinctively dart towards the treeline, searching for any disturbance. Shadows loomed deep and long and there’s very little he could see from that distance but smoke caught in his throat—or it could have been his heart lodging itself up there—when a bush rustled and his fingers twitched. It’s the wind. _It’s the fucking wind_ , he reassured silently even as he felt himself going cross-eyed, so fixated on that one spot. He took another shaky drag, exhaled, tried to swallow his anxiety back down. He couldn’t afford to shit himself every time a leaf crunched under foot.

“—rington. _Hey?”_

Billy snapped his fingers in the air and Steve jumped, eyes snapping back into focus and onto Billy’s outstretched arm.

“Quit hogging that and pass it.”

He held out hand automatically; swaying and feeling more airheaded than he’d like to admit. He hadn’t planned on getting _this_ high, his limbs jerky and uncooperative; he knees wobbled trying to distribute his weight.

If something were to dive out of those bushes now—Steve wasn’t sure if he’d be able to grab his bat in time.

_It was the wind._

There’s nothing here. Except Billy. The brush of his fingers against his own, smooth and warm, as he pinched the joint—that was just enough to ground Steve back in the moment. _There were no monsters here. Just Billy._ He could deal.

Steve swallowed thickly. A dense blanket of fog curled around brain, slowing his thoughts, while his heart beat far quicker than considered normal. It was only through sheer will he managed to piece words together and wrestle his tongue into movement. “Well. You might roll bad. But that’s some good pot.”

Billy scoffed as he inhaled, not appearing half as bogged down as Steve felt. “Took me longer than I expected but I managed to find myself a guy who actually deals with _good shit_ .” Smoke blew out through his nose like an agitated bull. He huffed, “he lives like, _two hours_ , away though. Out near Whitemore? In Cali you can find a decent dealer on every _block_ —” Steve’s _pretty_ sure that was an exaggeration but he had neither facts nor experience to back it up with “—how the fuck you hicks survive on the dried-up shit out here I don’t know.”

Steve swore they’d never yet had a conversation—if any of their interactions could be described as _conversations_ —where Billy didn’t insult Hawkins in some form or another.

“Yeah, well maybe most people don’t _need_ pot to _survive_.” Steve shrugged.

“But not _you_ , eh, Harrington.” Billy quipped with a raised brow, daring Steve to say otherwise.

And Steve might’ve felt defensive, but denying it wouldn’t be entirely truthful. While he didn’t smoke pot _that_ often; he _occasionally_ got high in other ways. It was a last resort thing. On the worst nights when paranoia was drilling at his skull. When all the lights in his house do nothing to keep the darkness from creeping forward, when the bat in his hands provides no security and exhaustion cramps his muscles.

His mom’s prescription meds—they put him _down_. A well needed escape from the ever consuming unease clutching his spine. And he knew it was messed up. Eighteen years old and sat alone in his big empty house smacked out on benzo’s on a school night. Wasn’t exactly the life anyone envisioned for him.

Smoking pot felt more respectable somehow. Smoking pot with Billy almost made him feel like he was just a dumb teenager doing dumb teenager shit. He reached out, pinched the joint from between Billy’s fingers and took a couple of drags. His legs were still shaky beneath him, his body heavier like someone had slowly been dropping rocks into his pockets. But the sound of Billy’s voice was surprisingly calming. Beyond the sneers and insults, he was just being conversational and honest in his own awful way, poking a little too close at Steve’s scabs but not quite ripping them off.

He never bothered answering. Offered only a shrug as he handed the joint back before seating himself on the hood like he had the right to.

Billy stared at him.

“Um? Get off my car, Harrington?”

“Nah.”

He was a fucking idiot to expect anything other than a foot in the ribs. Awkwardly placed but with enough force to send him sprawling. He stumbled over in an undignified mess—heard Billy snicker at his wobbling legs—and he must’ve been feeling _really_ high and particularly stupid in that moment, because he blurted out, “can I sit on your knee then?”

He said it _sarcastically_.

If Billy wanted to be a violent asshole then he was allowed to be snarky. But when he managed to straighten himself up, Billy was giving him this astonished look, then a thoughtful one, rounded off with a leering, roguish one. That sinful tongue swiped across his lower lip, flicking at his teeth, and reminding Steve all too much of their confrontation outside the Byers’ place—right before he got shoved on his ass. But Billy stayed where he was, shook his hair back without breaking eye contact and patted his thighs.

“Come take a seat then, your highness,” he drawled, his voice dropping and eyebrow raised, and Steve balked; unsure if what he just heard was a challenge or a pick-up line.

He figured Billy would just tell him to fuck off. Scoff and call him a queer at worst. But Billy had a knack for throwing curveballs and Steve couldn’t figure out if there was deeper meaning behind it or if Billy was really just crazy.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me now, Harrington?” Amusement danced in his tone.

If this was some game then Steve had missed the rules.

He took a wary step forward, like his legs and brain weren’t quite on the same page, because he was _not_ about to sit on Billy Hargrove’s lap, but he wasn’t going to squirm away either. That felt too much like _losing_ , and whatever game Billy was trying to play—Steve didn’t want to lose. Billy might be King now but that didn’t mean Steve had to be one of his subjects. But then he was directly in front of Billy and Billy was blowing smoke in his face and looking exceptionally pleased with himself like Steve was playing his part perfectly.

Irritation rising along with a pressed determination not to be outmanoeuvred, Steve took what was left of the joint—a deep toke which almost burned his lips—before flicking it over his shoulder and blowing smoke right back into Billy’s face. Hoped those blue eyes would burn.

“Buy me a drink first.”

Billy’s grin didn’t crack.

“I already shared me whiskey with you.”

 _Fuck_.

He did do that.

Billy’s fingertips were trailing up the zipline of his jacket, a smirk curling on his lips; delighting in what he decided was another point on the scoreboard. His eyes, dark and hooded, dropped to his throat and Steve swallowed when they lingered.

“A _proper_ drink, Hargrove,” Steve mustered, frozen under Billy’s touch. “Not the shit stuff you stole from your parents liquor cabinet.”

“Hhmm.” Billy’s hand reached the collar of his jacket and he grasped a fistful of material, _twisted_ , and yanked Steve down to his level so sharply and suddenly that Steve had to plant his hands on Billy’s shoulder to stop his face colliding with Billy’s forehead.

“ _Hey—“_

“—Sure liked my pot though didn’t you?” Billy’s husky growl interrupted his objection.

His arm was taut and grip tight, keeping Steve awkwardly curled over him. Steve squeezed his shoulders. He wasn’t sure how where exactly Billy was trying to take lead Steve with this new pissing contest or how his personality could deviate so quickly. Was he this confusing and frustrating with everyone or was Steve just special?

“Why’d you share it with me?”

“Why’d you come over here?” Billy countered, leaning a little closer so Steve could smell the whiskey on his breath. Close enough that he was sure Billy could hear his heart thumping; could probably hear his brain ticking. _What the fuck was going on?_

“Saw someone over here and came to check it out.” Steve lied. “That’s all.”

“Bull _shit_ ,” Billy chuckled against his ear and when Steve flinched, he blamed the hot breath puffing against his ear rather than the cutting edge that comes with that word. “You wander the woods at night with— _that—_ bat approaching random strangers? Looking for trouble there, amigo.” He tutted. The grip on his jacket tightened and his arms strained, bracing against Billy’s pull, but Billy just laughed, like it was a joke. Like Steve was a joke. “You _knew_ it was me over here, Harrington. And you could’ve walked away, but no _pe_ . You came over. Why’s that?” And Billy’s face was _real_ close. He could feel their jaws brush, the rough drag of Billy’s light facial hair. “And don’t _lie_. I can tell.”

For a second, Steve contemplated headbutting him. He deserved it for a million reasons and thinking Steve owed him any kind of explanation after _everything_ that had occurred between the two just got added to the list. Billy was always discovering new ways to zone in on Steve—make his skin prickle and toes curl. Even bruised and beat up, out here, hiding from his dad’s fists, Billy could still be just enough of a prick so that Steve didn’t feel _entirely_ sorry for him.

But the last time he bust Billy’s nose he got a plate smashed over his head and while they were miles from the nearest kitchen, Steve didn’t doubt Billy’s creativeness for violence.

“Curiosity.” Steve answered eventually. It wasn’t a lie.

“Uh huh.” He felt his breath ghosting along his cheek, his hair tickling his chin. “And what is King Steve so _curious_ about?”

His voice was deep and velvety, a tone reserved for seduction and it shouldn't have sent a shiver rippling up Steve’s spine but the blush he felt spread up his neck and warm his ears was undeniable. His fingers flexed over denim.

“You.”

It was a quiet admittance. For a second Steve prayed that Billy didn’t hear it but of course he couldn’t miss it as close as they were. The hand fisted in his jacket grew slack and Steve could easily push away, take his bat and leave.

“Me huh?”

 Billy sounded breathless, almost dazed yet _pleased_ . His free hand bean sliding up Steve’s arm, following the curve of his bicep before coming to rest on his shoulder, threading a strand of Steve’s hair through his fingers. He pulled back an inch, still close enough that their breaths mingled, but just far enough for Steve to see the heat, the intensity, the _hunger_ , smouldering in his eyes.

“Whatcha curious about? Maybe I can _enlighten_ you.”

Steve’s stomach clenched.

This clearly wasn’t a game anymore. If it had even started as one.

It was the way Billy touched him. The way he himself had touched girls when he wanted to to affirm his interest. Maybe a little more assertive and arrogant, but the same delicate gestures—the brush of lips against his jaw, the hair-playing--became mistakenly obvious. He knew when someone was hitting on him. He’d just never had it come from a _guy_ before.

Guys don’t hit on other guys. Not here. Not in Hawkins. People might throw the word _queer_ around at any guy who came across as weak or little _too_ feminine, but Steve didn’t know of any openly gay people here.

But Billy wasn’t from _here_. He was a Californian through and through. The west coast, big city vibes rolled off him in waves—told of more exciting stories and _experiences_ than their small town had to offer.

He’s done this before, Steve realized, whispered honeyed words and traced his fingers over a body that was not soft and petite, but firm and strong. And he obviously wanted to do it again. With him.

Shit.

He could fucking destroy Billy with this.

Bring him crashing down beside him—another fallen monarch. It’d be so easy. He could spin a tale where Billy was a repressed, closet-dweller; got his rocks off grinding against guys on the basketball court and fucking up faces because he wanted to _fuck_ them. If he was feeling exceptionally cruel he’d say Billy’s daddy beats him because he’s a fag. Just the suggestion would be enough to inspire rumours, make the guys in the locker room suspicious and question his fixation on the previous King of Hawkins.

He wouldn’t though. Some would if they were in his shoes—justify it as karma—but Steve wasn't heartless enough to turn the whole school against Billy. Especially not when he was already fighting—and clearly _losing_ —a battle at home.

Steve pushed back lightly on Billy’s shoulders until he could no longer feel his breath beating on his ear. “You’re drunk, Hargrove.” He said, giving Billy an opt-out, a chance to laugh and blame the alcohol. Or the pot. He could blame both and rest assured knowing his secret would never leave that clearing.

Billy did laugh, loud and sharp and scathing, before his fingers hooked through the Steve belt hoops and _tugged_ and Steve stumbled forwards, his knees cracking against the grill of the Camaro and a large hand slipped to grasp the meat of his thigh, keeping him close.

“I’m not _nearly_ drunk enough,” Billy growled in a sultry tone, getting himself right back up in Steve’s face like he _needed_ Steve to believe that; like he didn’t _care_ that he was openly hitting on another guy in the quiet, conservative town of Hawkins. A guy he has to go to school with in less than six hours.

Steve’s brain was still playing catch up. Stuck on the realization that he— _everyone_ —had read Billy so wrong. Questioning which parts of Billy were real and which were an act. A front he wore to keep people from asking the questions he couldn’t answer; to keep them from exposing his deepest scars. He’d seen many sides to Billy—a clusterfuck of conflicting personalities that mostly left him feeling uneasy and agitated—but the Billy in front of him now was the most relatable one Steve had met. He wavered, wanting to believe _this_ Billy was authentic, but he really had no solid proof of that.

His dick, however, was reacting without the same uncertainty.

It was _difficult—_ under the influence and with Billy’s wandering hands—to maintain any semblance of composure. He squirmed; desperate that Billy did not see or _feel_ his arousal. It wasn’t like he was scared Billy would mock him, Billy started the whole thing, but he _needed_ a second to let his thoughts digest. Billy was _gay._ And hitting on him. And Steve’s dick apparently liked that.

Maybe he was finally cracking—like for real this time—because he didn’t pull away in disgust, like he should, not because Billy’s _gay_ , but because he’s _Billy._ Billy with his shitty temper and smug smirks; prowling the school like a predator on the hunt. Steve should have been running, back to the trees, back to the monsters he knows how to fight.

But he knew—through his confusion and arousal—that he wasn’t going to find any monsters in the woods tonight. The trees were quiet and empty, and a perfect breeding ground for disturbing thoughts. The only things he was going to find out there was his stress and paranoia that he’d finally managed to shake off for more than 10 minutes.

And here he had such a tempting distraction.

Billy’s fingers tugged at his jeans impatiently, demanding a sign, and Steve looked at Billy then, properly, studied his face and found it lacking anger or arrogance. He looked younger without it, not innocent, but more like any other teenage guy just trying to muddle their way through school and sex and peer pressure. A guy that Steve could relate to, maybe, if he just stayed a little while.

His hand cautiously rose up to Billy’s mouth, the pad of his thumb just barely tracing over his lips; plump from the hit he’d taken earlier. He paused over the cut, still weeping lightly, and Steve couldn't stop himself from pressing down. Billy hissed, flinching away, and snatched his wrist from the air, squeezing and twisting just enough to serve as a warning.

“Don’t _prod_.” There was a hard edge to his voice that Steve recognized.

Well at least he knew the some of the Billy he was used to was still there. He wasn’t _totally_ impaired.

“Just checking this is like, _actually_ happening.”

Billy’s grin came back sharper than before—taking those words as a green-light—and he pushed his hips up against Steve’s. “Oh, it’s _happening_ , Harrington.” And Steve breathed in sharply through his teeth because—wow—okay, that was _definitely_ Billy Hargrove's cock he could feel pressing into his leg.

There was something about Billy’s shamelessness that made Steve feel a little less inhibited; like none of this was really as much of a big deal as Steve thought it would be.

No one was here to witness them. There’s no peers, or parents, or nosy neighbours peeking through the kitchen blinds. Just him and Billy.

Billy, who came out here to escape his monsters. Steve, who came to find his. And instead they’d found each other. Fate or a bad fucking joke—he didn’t know. But it was already happening so Steve let it happen.

It was Steve who moved first but Billy was there, eager and ready to receive him. Their mouths clashed almost painfully but righted themselves quickly, heads tilting and lips slotting together in a messy kiss. Hands roamed, over shoulders and chests and necks, thicker, broader than a girls but not unpleasant. Just different, new, _exciting._

It took a little manoeuvring. Billy spread his thighs wider, bent his knee and propped his heel on the car and Steve settled himself there, grinding their arousals together; deep groans tumbling from both their lips. He braced himself on his forearm planted next to Billy’s head, let Billy tug at his hair and jacket, drawing their mouth and tongues back to each other. Billy kissed hard but _good_. His teeth nipped Steve’s lower lip, soothing over it with his tongue before kissing him hungrily, like he wanted to taste all of him.

Steve’s free hand found itself roaming down Billy’s side, slipping under his denim to feel the heat of his skin burning through his thin shirt, eager for more, for skin on skin. He fumbled blindly around the waistband of his jeans and pulled his t-shirt free, found flesh and curled his palm around his ribs. Billy squirmed beneath him.

“Fuckin cold-ass hands.” He hissed, knocking Steve’s wrist away, pushed it down towards his hip instead and Steve relented, curled his to fingers through his belt loop and _pulled._ “Fuck _yes_ ,” Billy moaned, bucking up and relishing in the friction. He could feel Billy through their jeans, imagined his cock—the glimpses he took in the locker-room, like all boys did—hard and leaking at the tip. Heat curled low in his loins and he nipped at Billy’s lips before his tongue dived inside, tasting whiskey and cigarette smoke. It probably would have been disgusting if the same flavour didn’t already coat his own gums.

“That’s the spirit, Harrington,” Billy praised when he let up, voice low and raspy and Steve felt a thrill shudder through his bones; a surge of lust and exhilaration flooding his veins. “Bet the bitches were begging to be dicked down by King Steve,” Billy panted when Steve gripped his thigh and rocked against him, licking and nipping along his jawline.

“You still repeating that shit?” Steve mumbled into his neck, “I thought you were the King now?”

Billy just burst out laughing, so sudden and hysterical that Steve actually tried jerked away, but Billy fisted his hand in the back of his jacket, arm tense and not giving him another inch to budge. Giddy laughter still spilled over his lips, lighter now, like he was recovering from the funniest joke he’d ever heard. His eyes—damp at the corners, Steve noticed—didn’t hold the same humor, and Steve stomach clenched as before.

Whatever revelations he had made tonight weren’t worth forgetting that Billy was still _Billy_. The guy who terrorized a bunch of thirteen years old and bashed his face in. The guy whose moods shifted quickly and unpredictably; kept him guessing which variation was in front of him now.

“No, no no,” Billy protested, his smile evaporating when Steve went to push away. He hefted his leg up and over Steve’s hip. “Stay.” The heel of his boot dug into the meat of his ass, coaxing him back into motion; his lips finding Steve’s and muttering, “we’re having fun, right?”

It was kind of frightening how Billy could be so convincing. No demands but all soft touches and suggestive words, and Steve felt himself pulled along, cautious, but not unwilling. It’d be easier to say _no_ if Billy was a dick about it. If he tore at his clothes and hair, drew blood instead of shivers and groans.

 “Tell you what, Harrin’ton,” Billy mumbled, letting his head drop back, dirty blonde curls spilling over the hood. “If it makes a feel better—you can have the crown back.” His hand found Steve’s chest, his thumb swiping over nipple, soft but teasing, and Steve inhaled sharply. “Just for tonight."

It sounded so much like _take what you want. Whatever you want._ And Steve had never really wanted anything from Billy, except maybe peace and quiet, but having him _here_ , spread over the Camaro, surrendering to his whim—like Billy knew exactly what he secretly wanted.

Steve _craved_ control. Just some form of it over his fucking life would be _nice_ . He used to think he was hot shit. He had money, he had good looks, he had a fancy car. He was _popular_. And then Nancy happened and _Barb_ disappeared and reality bitch-slapped Steve Harrington straight in the face. He had been cruising by on his parents money, his best attributes being a people pleaser and having great hair. He wasn’t in control, but he figured if he _tried_ then maybe he could be.

And he fucking _tried_. But ditching his asshole friends and paying attention in school didn’t stop the world from nearly ending again. Didn’t stop his girlfriend from dumping him for another guy.

Being a great babysitter didn’t make up for all the things he’d lost along the way.

Occasionally he missed being an ignorant douchebag. At least the douchebag got a good 7 hours sleep most nights. When he wasn’t partying or sneaking in through girls’ windows.

 _Take what you want_.

Steve knew he couldn’t be _that_ guy again. He didn’t want to be. But he could pretend. He didn’t even have to fight for it—gifted upon him without demand—he could play at being King Steve again, or at least a glimmer of him, long enough to settle his anxiety and give his overworked mind a break. And Billy was just _presenting_ himself; the suggestion clear as the moon that night. _You be the king_ . Like he was just asking Steve to use him. No games, no consequences, they both wanted the release so why not just _have it?_

 _Nobody is here_ , he reminded himself, his hand slipping beneath Billy’s head, cradling his skull and teasing his hair with his fingers. He could have this. Take like he’d taken everything else Billy had offered that night.

It came back to him naturally, assuming the lead with Billy so pliant and willing beneath him, eager to receive. Steve touched Billy with more demand and fervour than he had ever done with a girl, desperate and touch-starved, the ache of lost love urging his whole body into motion. He tugged on Billy’s hair, squeezed his ass, and revelled in the moans drawn from his mouth. It’d been too long—not since Nancy—and he knew this wasn’t going to be a drawn out performance. His skin tingled beneath Billy’s hands as they slipped down his sides, seizing his hips and urging him to go harder; bucking up for more friction. Steve complied—body moving on autopilot—hissing desperate _fuck_ s and _shit_ s against Billy’s lips.

“Fucking King Steve. Knew you’d be good at this.” Billy’s rough voice broke through his thoughts.

“Thought about this often, Hargrove?”

He felt the breathy chuckle against his lips, noticed the lack of denial, and his stomach did somersaults. _That’s a yes._

Billy’s hand grasped his chin and he was pulled into a crushing kiss that stole the air from his lungs; growing light-headed as their tongues entwined. His hips slowed as Billy thrust his hand between them, reaching for himself eagerly, and Steve felt his body coil and tense; swallowing down the curses spilled from his lips.

He broke the kiss and looked down just in time to see creamy fluid spurt from the tip of Billy cock, pulled from his waistband with Billy’s fist pumping out everything he had. His thighs quivered and tightened, hugging Steve’s hips, back arching off the hood. Patches of cum stained his shirt, Steve followed the mess up to his exposed throat—veins protruding and adam’s-apple bobbing as he swallowed—before settling his gaze on Billy’s face, sweat-soaked and pink-cheeked, frozen in a state of relief and euphoria.

His mouth went dry, seeing Billy so fucked-out, cock soft on his stomach, knowing _he_ did that.  Warmth pooled in his gut and Steve didn’t hesitate to get his hand down his jeans, wrapping his fingers around himself, wrist jerking hastily. The satisfied groan torn from his throat had Billy’s eyelashes fluttering, opening tiredly to reveal glassy eyes; sated and spent. Steve flicked his thumb over the head, grunted, and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel Billy’s gaze on him, on his teeth clenching his lower lip. He was close, the heat spread to his groin, pulsing through his cock, heavy and leaking in his fist. Billy thumbed over his nipple and Steve inhaled sharply, a deep moan tumbling from his lips, and he shuddered as he came hard over Billy’s chest, staining his shirt further.

He collapsed onto his elbow, head bowed as he shook in the aftermath, his hand dropping from his spent cock to Billy’s stomach and he smeared cum from his fingers over the exposed skin. He rested there, tried to catch his breath while he slowly came down from his high. Billy’s chest rose and fell, his breath rattling, sharps puffs against his ear, for seconds, minutes maybe, dazed and content. A cool breeze swept by, the chill creeping over his scalp, dampened by perspiration, and Steve shivered despite the warmth of Billy’s body pressed so close.   

Like a spell broken, Billy’s hand touched his shoulder, and Steve didn’t resist. The cold hit his chest as he pulled away, taking his weight back on to his feet and ignoring how his knees wobbled.  He quickly fumbled to put his dick away, wiping down slick fingers on his jeans, and took a step away from the car.

He risked a quick look around the clearing. Dark water and dark trees. Still quiet, still vacant—he hoped at least—his bat had fallen to the ground though. Billy hadn’t notice. Didn’t spare Steve a word or glance as he silently pushed himself off the hood.

Steve had had some awkward moments following sex, usually triggered by performance anxiety— _was he good? Did they enjoy it?—_ because that sort of shit mattered to him. Steve was a _pleaser_. And good sex kept them coming back for more.

He was pretty confident that Billy was satisfied—far easier to tell with a guy—but screwing a guy who knocked you unconscious over his car at two—or was it three now?—in the morning was hardly a situation Steve had any experience with.

He opened his mouth when Billy turned his back on him. Shut it again when his brain failed to provide him with any words.

What the fuck was he actually supposed to say?

_Thanks for that, see you at school._

They weren’t even friends.

Or was this what they called a _hate-fuck?_ Steve had no experience with those either.

He stood and watched like a moron as Billy walked to the back of the car and popped the trunk open. He shrugged off his jacket and then his shirt, scrunching it into a ball and using it the wipe off the mess on his chest and stomach before tossing it into trunk. There was a patch of discolouration high on his ribs, dark and prominent, and Steve was left to wonder how Billy could move so fluidly. Not even a grimace as he pulled a black t-shirt—retrieved from the trunk—over his head and yanked his jacket back on. Experience probably.

The trunk closed with a slam, and Billy slouched lazily back towards him. None of the prior desperation and desire evident. He dug into his breast pocket, pulling out his cigarettes and took one for himself. He didn’t offer Steve one. Beneath his jacket, Steve saw the faded white print of a band logo, recognized it as Motorhead. Not that he really listened to them. Except that one song, Ace of Spades, but he figured everyone knew that one.

Billy finally looked at him, eyes blue and distant over the flicker of light. He regarded Steve slow and bored, sucking deep on his cigarette until the tip glowed and snapping his lighter and killing the flame, his expression lost with it. Smoke blew out from his nose, rising before dispersing above their heads. He was close again, within Steve’s reach if he were to try, but touching suddenly felt extremely out of bounds. The lid of the lighter _clicked_ as Billy flicked at it with his thumb.

“I’m not a cuddler, Harrington. You can go now.”

Steve stiffened.

Okay.

He didn’t expect that. He should have expected really, because this is Billy, and it’s not like he was bracing for a love confession.

But. Billy initiated all of this. He’s the one who pulled Steve down on top of him and let him come on his chest. _He_ hit on _Steve_ . At the very least he assumed there’d be a few threats. The old _tell anyone and you’re dead_ and that sort of thing. And he would let Billy feel like a tough guy again now that the moment had ended.

He hadn’t anticipated getting brushed off so directly.

“You. You’re not gonna, like, _say_ anything?”

Billy’s eyebrows knitted together, pinning Steve with a mystified expression. “I just said something. Now off you go.” He made a vague gesture with his hand, almost shooing, and if not for lingering buzz of booze, weed, and sex then Steve might have just swung. But, _thankfully_ , he was still a little fuzzy around the edges, slower to react, it gave him chance to swallow down whatever the hell was rising in his throat. The lighter _clicked_ and Billy rolled his shoulders, scrutinizing expression boring into Steve like he’d done so many times before, as if he could pick apart Steve’s thoughts one by one.

And Steve knew by then that Billy was filled with hot-air and bullshit, but the look still sent a prickle down his spine, had him wondering if Billy never actually stopped playing a game with him, feigning vulnerability to manipulate the situation. As if Billy had constructed this whole scenario the moment Steve foolishly said, _can I sit on your knee then?_

Steve almost believed it too. But the cigarette quivered between restless fingers, burning too quickly as Billy pulled one drag after another, and Steve couldn’t help but picture his mom in her pale blue evening dress, hiding in the kitchen, silently puffing her way through a carton of Virginia Slims while his dad’s mistress mingled with the other guests in their living room. He remembered how she sucked her teeth, drummed her nails frantically on the earthstone worktops, and tapped her heels. Didn’t speak a single word to him. And then she stubbed the final one out, checked her hair and smoothed down her dress, and—with a deep, firm breath—marched back to the party; all warm smiles and hospitable charm. Didn’t even flinch when dad patted Linda’s ass right in front of her.

From what Steve knew they never talked about his dad’s affair, despite it being glaringly obvious. It was just one of those things they lived with. Dad screwed his PA. Mom was rarely sober. And they ghosted around each other with polite conversation and tight smiles. Going on with their lives and poorly taping up the cracks as they appeared.

Billy was fairly well versed in that game too.

Really. Steve was growing sick of all these bullshit games.

“Are you sleeping in your car?” He asked eventually. Billy gave him an incredulous look. Steve took it as a _yes_ , but didn’t press any further. He eyed the windshield, knew the interior was cramped and uncomfortable for a decent sleep, knew that _Billy_ knew it too. From experience. He kept spare clothes in the trunk, probably had a blanket and a cushion too. Small necessities for when he needed a short escape.

“You’re not sleeping in there with me,” Billy snapped suddenly, and Steve found himself scoffing.

“Yeah, I don’t want to. Thanks.”

“Then why you still here?”

“I—“ _want to know where we stand. What happens next._

But Billy is wearing that same _are you shitting me right now_ expression he had on that night when Steve had been lying to his face over Max’s whereabouts. That _don’t feed me your bullshit Harrington_ look. Right before all hell broke loose.

And there’s not a lot Steve could say that didn’t sound like bullshit. It’s not like he _wanted_ to get cosy with Billy in the backseat of his car. Nor could he earnestly offer Billy one of the empty beds at his house without Billy sniffing out the pity layered beneath.

Billy dropped the cigarette butt to the floor, smouldered the embers under his heel. “Well?” The lighter _clicked_ , and Steve’s eyes flicker to his fingers stroking along the smooth metal; restless. _Click_. “Anything, princess?”

There were plenty of things he could’ve said. _You’re a dick. A liar. A Fake. A coward._ To name a few. But some struck a little closer to home than Steve would rather admit. He put on his fair share of false smiles and forced laughs—dodged questions and changed subjects. He was unsure how that made him feel—knowing him and Billy may not be _so_ different after all. Billy simply had more talent for it, more practise and experience. Adapting to the situation and slipping on whatever mask he deemed appropriate. His _go to_ option being Conceited Asshole _._ Even after taking a beating from dear old dad, and exposing—and _acting_ upon—what must be one of his deepest secrets to his self-appointed high school rival—Billy still managed to make Steve feel like the bitch.

He suddenly felt tired, in a way that he hadn’t felt in while, tugging at his bones and eyelids, grown weary of frantically trying to piece together some semblance of normality in this screwed up reality. He just wanted to crawl under his duvet and sleep for a week, to hell with the world outside his window. He needed a break. He _deserved_ one.

“Whatever, man. I’m gonna go now.”

He had just enough of the buzz left to ride him safely home. Enough cotton-padding in his skull to soften his thoughts, keep his nightmares from poking through. Whatever high he’d received from Billy that night, he was grateful, sure, but he wasn’t going to waste it with this pointless back and forth now. He felt sleep beckon him, coaxing his legs into movement. He bent to collect his bat from the ground, twirling it in his fingers. It felt lighter than before.

“Finally.” Billy muttered, and Steve let out a short huff but didn’t bother to retort. Save his breath and get home quicker.

Maybe somethings would never change.

He fisted his empty hand inside his pocket and stuck his chin in the air, pretended that his skin wasn’t searing from the heat of Billy’s eyes stalking his departure. In his head—where he visualized a cooler, more impressive version of himself—he hit Billy with a final scathing remark, one that renders him speechless and defeated. The flesh version of him, however, broke resolve after several measly seconds and dared to take a quick look over his shoulder. As predicted Billy was staring after him, but he turned away faster than Steve did, sucking on a newly lit cigarette.

The crunch of rocks beneath his sneakers faded, replaced with the soft squelch of dewy grass, and Steve focused back on what was ahead of him least him trip. He heard the faint click of a car door opening, shortly followed by the slam as it shut. Then there was quiet.

As he slipped past the treeline he spared one last glance at the Camaro, peaceful with moonlight glinting off the roof and silence from within. A branch snagged his jacket, snapping when he tugged it free, and he pressed on, his house, his bed, waiting for him. The woods were empty.

 

 

He slept until late morning, woke to find his alarm clock on the floor—broken next to his nail-bat—and quickly decided to give school a miss.

 

 

On Thursday he shuffled into class just barely avoiding a tardy slip. He’d spent more time than usual fluffing up his hair and choosing an outfit—needed something which screamed, _I’m doing fine and life is great!_ And then hopefully no one would ask otherwise. At lunch, Nancy said his hair looked bigger than usual, and Samatha teased him about the length of time it takes him to get ready. Her guess wasn’t far of the mark but Steve waved her off, said it was just good genes.

Billy sat a few tables over, quiet in his group but smirking at something Tommy was saying. Steve observed him as discreetly as he could, making sure to nod and smile enough to satisfy Nancy. He appeared relaxed, slouched in his chair with his arms spread out over the back, fingers flicking at Vicky’s ponytail. The bruising on his face was darker than it had been, ugly and swollen, his lip plump and sore. He had no idea if Billy had shown up for school yesterday, or what cover story he had tattled off when questioned about his injuries.

“’Happened to his face?” Steve asked, jabbing his fork in Billy’s direction when Nancy gave him a puzzled look.

“Oh. Him. I’m not sure.”

“Some fight up at the quarry, apparently,” Jonathan said.

“With who?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged. “I overheard some guys talking about it yesterday, wasn’t really listening though...” _Because it’s a load of bullshit anyways_ , Steve finished for him silently.

“Carol says it was you,” Samantha said, eyes glinting at Steve in amusement, and Steve stiffened, heart skipping a beat and face going hot.

Nancy huffed dismissively, “Carol says a lot of things.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” Samantha laughed, giving Nancy a friendly nudge and Steve let out shaky breath. “But you were a no show yesterday, and well, people gossip.”

“They sure do,” Steve agreed with a tight smile. “But here I am.”

“Safe and sound.” Samantha grinned, dropping her attention from him and sliding a copy of _Rolling Stone_ from beneath her tray; Phil Collins’ face plastered over the cover. “Have you read this yet?” She asked Jonathan.

“No. I’m not, _that_ into his solo stuff,” he shrugged. “’Prefer Genesis—“

“—You do surprise us all—“

“It’s not that!” Jonathan protested. “I don’t _dislike_ his solo stuff. It just. I dunno. I just think Genesis had a better sound, Collins has gone commercial…”

Nancy covered his hand with her own. “We get it. You hate pop.” She was smiling though.

When her fingers lingered, tracing feather light over his knuckles; Steve looked away from them—his stomach knotting in discomfort—and by chance found himself locking onto Billy, who was brazenly staring right back.

It was like a pulse of energy throughout the cafeteria, the chatter around him dissolved, and for a few short seconds there was only Billy. Blue eyes and purple bruises. Pink lips and blonde hair. Denim on denim. All colour against a muted background. Steve waited for some kind of sign, anything that could convey Billy’s thoughts to him, but Billy’s face was abnormally blank, but tired; someone not looking to cause a scene. Had Steve dared to feel optimistic, he might describe is as soft, which both frightened and fascinated him. He wondered if Billy had been home since, or if he stayed in his car; smoked through his pack and thought about Steve. He clearly hadn’t forgotten. It left him aching to know what made Billy tick. It couldn’t just be the sex. Why risk it all with _Steve_ of all people.  

The desire pressed on his brain, gnawing at the fraying threads of his common sense and reasoning; torn between wanting to ask _“what do you want from me?_ ” and _“are you okay?_ ”

He wasn’t given the opportunity to voice either, the exchange too brief, ending when Billy tilted his head—so slight Steve could have imagined it—in conceding acknowledgment,  and he once again looked away first, focusing his attention on an eager Vicky. Chatter buzzed back into the room, the world returning to life. Nancy was laughing at something Jonathan said, Samantha flicking through her magazine.

No one paid him any mind. It was just another day, another week to them. School and homework. Gossip and parties. They did it last week; they’ll do it again the week after. Nothing had changed. Steve tried to believe that. Willed his brain to focus on the present. He had classes to pass and a future to think about too. A pudding cup still waiting to be eaten.

But his skin prickled and his eyes slipped—pulled like a magnet back to Billy. Blue and bright—a contrast to his own—seemingly shallow pools hiding unknown depths; Steve felt like he might drown in those eyes. Maybe he already was.

But he had a cryptic feeling that Billy might be drowning too. Somehow that was reassuring. Knowing he wasn’t the only one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally submitting my first fic after eighteen months in this fandom! Better late than never. And it's the good old _Billy and Steve meet in the woods_ , which has been done a thousand times already but fuck it, I'm not bored of it yet.
> 
> Title is from Alestorm's _Nancy the Tavern Wench_.
> 
> I lurk over on tumblr @cherry-toxic


End file.
